


When I let go of your throat sweet throttle

by tanyart



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-12
Updated: 2011-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just this once, lose yourself with me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I let go of your throat sweet throttle

**Author's Note:**

> aggressive!Hawke/Fenris rivalship. Title taken from the song, _I'm Always In Love_ by Wilco.

It was only the slight pressure building in his ears that gave Fenris warning, though that didn’t stop him from twitching when the loud, thunder-like clap sounded behind him.His instincts were barely kept in check as he felt Hawke’s back pressed against his for a brief moment before the rogue pushed forward to finish off the enemy warrior Fenris hadn’t managed to behead.

He remembered the first time Hawke had used that particular skill on him.Fenris had nearly cleaved the rogue in two from shock alone (and then again out of pure annoyance), but Hawke had smirked with his eyes alight and double blades shining with blood.It was intimidating as well as concerning, that Fenris was following someone so bloodthirsty and _frantic_  when it came down to slashing their enemies dead, dead, _dead_.There was energy brimming from Hawke, overflowing and coming off in waves, and Fenris could only wonder how Hawke managed so much of it, screaming off all that extra energy with taunts and battle cries. Maybe it was because Hawke was used to keeping quiet until he bled from a thousand cuts and wore a glazed look that Fenris easily recognized as that euphoric fighter’s high, spurred on by the sweeping ebb and flow of every battle

And he had seen Hawke drunk on wine and spirits before, but it was nothing like seeing him intoxicated by his own blood and that of his enemies—across his face, over his armor, down his arms.

“You and I are the same,” Hawke had said, months ago and early enough in their acquaintance that Fenris bristled at the assumption.“When we fight, we _forget_ everything, and there is only _us_ ,” he continued, throwing out an unsteady hand to emphasize the carnage and corpses and whatever was left of the raiders’ hideout.Between his fingers was a bottle of wine, looted from the battle but left unopened; it was blood enough that sent Hawke grinning madly and tumbling into Fenris, dragging him down to bite and claw and lick away the drying scarlet from his skin.

Fenris had tried to stay in control, to remain calm and be _aware_ —that _he_ was the one who left Hawke, and that Hawke had let him leave, looking as if he did not care and never really did. It would be better to resent him for all his ties to mages, shallow or not, all his smirks and shameless greed, his unrepentant way of using everyone around him, and everything that Hawke showed on the surface like a distorted, tinted mirror.

The lyrium markings on his hand flickered and Fenris bit back a battle cry, choking it down— _control, stay in control_ —and stumbled back, confused to hear the metallic drag of steel and _yelling_ when he had not raised his sword in time or unclenched his jaw to scream. He glanced up, seeing Hawke in front him, the enemy’s blade sliding against his gauntlet from where he had blocked the blow that was meant for Fenris.

The noise—it was unnerving when it came from Hawke.He shouted as if everything and nothing made him furious and attacked with equal ferocity to match.All Fenris could do was stare, his heart pounding once, twice, until Hawke turned on his heel, taunting and condescending at the same time.The enemy was not dead yet, just thrown off for a couple of seconds, but it was all Hawke was going to offer.

 _How am I supposed to watch your back when you can’t take care of what’s in front of you?_

Fenris wasn’t sure if he had imagined the smirk playing over Hawke’s lips, but the tip of his dagger grazing down the curved line of Fenris’ tattoo was too sharp and precise to be an accident. Whether or not it was deep enough to cut, Fenris did not know; he was glowing bright blue by the time Hawke darted behind him once more, back to back and confident in that arrogant way of his.

Hawke had never asked for Fenris to come back, but he was asking Fenris _now_ , to forget everything—of mages and slaves and scarlet shackles—and lose himself until there were bodies sewn across the ground and the world itself was drowning in a brilliant, sapphire haze.

And because it was only for a moment, Fenris let go, glad that he could not feel the warmth and pressure he was so drawn to when he leaned back, shining blue and screaming out his battle cry.


End file.
